


To Live Is An Act Of Courage

by WhisperElmwood



Series: IronStrange MCU rewrite [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avengers Family, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Found Family, Hallucinations, Hyperbole, M/M, Magic, Medical, Medical Examination, Nightmares, Paternal Instinct, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Questionable Physics, Questionable medical stuff, Slow Burn, Snark, Suicidal Thoughts, Team Dynamics, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric, not team Cap friendly, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperElmwood/pseuds/WhisperElmwood
Summary: Steve drops the shield and carries Bucky out of the bunker, leaving Tony alone in the cold, the dark, the silence. In a  malfunctioning suit, coughing up blood, he can barely move let alone call for help. Five hours later, a portal opens and someone says his name.This is a slow recovery fic, slow burn, found family, and possibly a couple surprises.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I watched Endgame and it killed me. So I'm doing my own. 
> 
> This fic is about Tony recovering from yet another betrayal, learning to trust again and finding a new family. It is not particularly Team Cap friendly, but nobody is made out to be a monster. In fact, I'm probably going to try to make sense to myself the various dtupid-ass decisions made. 
> 
> I'll add tags as I go, so keep an eye on those. I'll also add character tags as they arrive. 
> 
> Some other changes include: 
> 
> •Clint is more like the Matt Fraction version and has no super-secret-family (so this is a Clint friendly fic). 
> 
> •Tony and Pepper never get back together after their break. 
> 
> •I've mucked with the MCU timeline somewhat, so the events of Doctor Strange start roughly the same time as AoU, so by the time this story starts, Stephen has some time as Sorcerer Supreme under his belt. 
> 
> (I know everyone and their aunt has written one of these, but I wanted to do my own sshhh)

Prologue

 

“That shield doesn't belong to you.” Tony can barely hold himself up, head ringing, neck aching, the weight of the unresponsive suit more than he can really deal with at the moment and FRIDAY isn’t there to help; but he keeps trying, swaying a little as he watches Steve and Bucky. “You don't deserve it. My father made that shield!” 

Steve pauses, back to him, the only acknowledgement that he’s heard him at all. The soldier straightens, breath harsh and then, with barely a jerk of his arm, drops the shield. The clang of vibranium on concrete echoes around the freezing room, the sound dull, anticlimactic, eaten up by the cold air. A fitting end to… everything, really. 

Tony turns away from the sight, spits blood from his mouth. It’s a little harder to breathe again, but he takes a few deep breaths and struggles, forces himself up. He makes it to his knees, but that’s as far as he gets before he glances up, silently watches the two men leaving, his already damaged heart cracking and breaking all the more deeply. The ARC in his chest flickers, fading in and out, and he slips, falling back, still staring at the door the two men have stumbled through. Leaving him behind. Leaving him alone. 

In the silence of the room, his laboured breathing is harsh, ragged. He can just hear the clang of steel doors shifting, of the heavy steps of the two super soldiers on steel walkways. But… not for long. Too soon he is utterly alone. FRIDAY offline. The suit shutting down. The air reaching temperatures that pinch his exposed skin, his breath clouding on every exhale, freezing moisture in his nose and mouth on every inhale. He tries to get up again, but now something in his chest screams at him and he drops back, panting and wide-eyed into the space between concrete arches, sliding on piled snow and ice. 

He may have a high tolerance for pain, but that… that was unexpected and too much even for him. Tony stares up at the frost and ice covered walkways and pipes and engines and mechanisms, as he rests gingerly against the concrete arch. He can’t move; too tired, too cold, too much in pain to lift the weight of gold-titanium armour. And where would he go? He’s alone in this bunker. He can’t fly. He can’t contact anyone. His head is ringing, his thoughts a scattered mess. At least the suit is keeping him relatively warm for now. He just... Has to wait. Wilson knows where he went. Rogers isn’t such an ass that he won’t inform someone. FRIDAY had his location before the suit went offline. 

Someone will come. 

He clings to that thought as the air grows colder. As the sunlight begins to fade. As his breathing becomes shallower, more painful. As his eyes droop. 

By the second hour of silence but for the wind whistling around him, Tony realises no one is coming. He tries to get up - maybe he can make it back to the control room, hotwire something - but he fails and crashes into the arch again. His chest screams at him and he coughs wetly, fresh blood on his lips.

By the third hour, he has struggled to get up so many times he has, at last, managed to move away from the open arches, but it has taken all his strength and there is no Dum-E here to help him the last few steps. Now, he rests against the wall, helmet by his hip, dark and useless. The ARC has stopped flickering entirely and the cold is beginning to seep through the suit - metal will do that. He’ll need to design some changes when he gets back to the lab, he thinks blearily, to combat heat transference. 

By the fourth hour, his eyes close without his permission. He blinks. And again. But then he can’t open them at all. It’s dark anyway, nothing to look at but snow drifts and ice-coated concrete. Blood and spittle has frozen to his skin, his beard. He’s fairly certain his lashes have ice on them. No one is coming. No one is coming and his chest hurts and he can’t open his eyes. 

He loses all sense of time entirely. 

He jerks awake at the sound of boots on concrete but doesn’t move. He can’t. Can barely force his ice-encrusted eyes open. Flickering golden-orange light. Warm air brushing his numb skin. Searingly hot fingers pressing into his neck.

“Doctor Stark…” A deep, baritone voice. 

Someone came. 


	2. Chapter 01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medical stuff! I did research, but I'm a masters student, not a medic, so if somethings wrong... uh handwavey? 
> 
> I REALLY enjoyed writing Stephen and I know Tony's a little less himself here than you'd maybe expect, but the guy's traumatised and not exactly thinking clearly. 
> 
> I'm probably going to try to do a once weekly update from here on out, so see y'all next Friday (and omg, thank you so much for all the comments and love on the prologue!)

Chapter 01 

 

Tony jerks awake, but for all that it is a violent shock to his system, he barely moves, limbs sluggish - until, with a rush of terrified adrenaline, they're not.

He shoves himself up, breath coming in heaving gasps and chokes as shaking hands touch the obstruction taped into his mouth, down his throat. He can’t move his head at all, doesn’t understand, in his panic, why that is. Doesn’t understand anything. The skin on the back of his hands pinches and tugs, IV tubes tangling as he frantically tries to get himself free and it is only when a group of medics rush into the room that he finally registers the heart monitor going off the rails, starts putting together where he is, what’s going on.

Wild-eyed and panicking it takes three people to hold him down and he feels the pinch of a needle in his hip, the sick cold feeling of something entering his bloodstream. Things go sluggish again, the world goes grey, white, black.

The next time he wakes he is calmer.

He’s weirdly warm and it takes him a moment to realise that heating pads have been tucked between his arms and his torso, between his thighs, and the heavy blanket tucked over him is probably heated too. Compared to the freezing conditions he had been left in, this is… Good.

His throat feels scratchy and sore but what he now realises was a breathing tube is gone, not even sticky residue on his face from the tape. Only one IV is still attached to him, in his left hand. A mercy.  He still can’t move his head.

He takes a moment to pull his breathing back from panicked, and then tries to assess his body, small twitches of muscle groups as he methodically categorises each new hurt. His head hurts. His face hurts. His neck aches, as do his shoulders and down his back and arms - his right arm was already hurting, now it’s worse. His chest is one big mass of ache and sharp pain right across his sternum… He gives up after that. _Everything_ hurts.

When he tries to turn his head, an attempt to stretch the ache out of his neck, he discovers he can’t, that a brace, a collar, has been wrapped around him and then he panics again.

“Easy - _easy_ , Doctor Stark, _Tony…_ ”

Firm but gently-shaking fingers press against his wrist, checking his pulse, and he remembers that voice, the deep baritone - and… flickering golden-orange light? What? - and opens his eyes as he tries hard not to let himself fall any deeper into panic. The lights are way too bright, making him blink and squint. A face - blurry at first - comes into view above him, strong eyebrows pinched in worry, high cheekbones, noble nose, awesome facial hair...

“You’re safe here, Tony. You’re in the private medical bay of Stark Tower. It has been three days since Siberia. You’re safe, I promise.”

Tony blinks up at this strange man whose face is, somehow, sort of familiar. He pushes the thought away and licks his dry lips, takes a breath, “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Boss! You’re in Stark Tower! It is 13.07 on June 27th. Ms Potts is on the 15th floor, currently engaged in a conference call with members of the Accords committee. Mr Hogan is in the garage. Colonel Rhodes is three doors down on this floor, he’s not woken up yet but his vitals suggest that he will soon. Karen says Mr Parker is in good health and already home. Vision is on the Party Deck and says he will be down to visit you soon, if you are amenable to it.”

The more information FRIDAY gives him the calmer he gets. She’s not JARVIS, her voice far more excitable than his had been, really, she is still young... but it is a blessing to hear her again after he had thought… His people are safe, they’re all - they’re _mostly_ \- here and well and _safe_. “Tell… tell Vis… he can visit… anytime…”

“Of course, Boss.”

He attempts to focus on the man who has apparently been keeping him company.

“A remarkable machine, that,” he says, a smile on his thin lips.

Tony blinks. And again.

“Who’re... you..?”

“Ah, my apologies. My name is Doctor Stephen Strange. I am - or, I should say, I _used to be_ \- a neurosurgeon. We have met before, albeit briefly and a few years ago now, though if your memory is anywhere near as good as mine I expect you may recognise me. I -” the apparent doctor pauses and chuckles, “This will sound _very_ far-fetched, especially to you, but I felt a _disturbance_ and tracked it down to… you.”

He’s right, that _does_ sound ridiculous. His expression must say as much because Strange laughs again and rolls his eyes, “Yes, yes, it is all very Star Wars. However, it does mean that I found you, stabilised you and brought you here.”

Part of him is intrigued. He wants to ask a thousand questions - and they pass through his mind, one after another, he could pluck any one of them and easily give it voice - but the larger part of him just… Doesn’t care. He’s too tired. Too… Something. Also, his brain is all fuzzy again.

Strange’s brows crinkle into another frown, he watches him closely for a moment and then lightly trembling fingers press gently into his wrist as pale eyes glance up somewhere to Tony’s left.

“I know it’s a stupid question, but how are you feeling?”

Tony huffs a little, exhaustion beginning to pull at him. “M’fine…”

“Now, I know _that’s_ a lie. But I’ll let it slide for now - how is your vision?” Strange actually waves a - that is _not_ a torch! - that is a glowing fingertip! -  in his eyes, as he mutters to himself, but he can’t make himself react.

“My apologies Doctor Stark, I guess explanations can wait until you’re more cognisant.”

Tony just blinks up at him and then lets his eyes close.

The next time he wakes he blinks his eyes open and stares at the familiar ceiling, _still_ unable to move his head. At least he recognises where he is this time, he helped design the place after all. The light is a lot lower than it had been the last time, and there is no strange - ha! - man hanging around the room watching over him. The heating pads have all been removed, but the blanket tucked over him is still one of the heated ones and it makes him feel… comforted. Safe. Somewhat, anyway.

“Good evening, Boss! It is 21.17 on June 27th. I have paged Doctor’s Strange and Palmer, and Ms Potts to let them know you are awake again.”

He wonders, briefly, who asked FRIDAY to tell him the time and date when he wakes up - it’s not something he’s ever asked her to do - or whether she intuited it herself, and if the latter then he makes a note to himself to be very proud of her later. Either way it’s.. Really helping him not panic. As much.

“Tony!”

A clatter of the door opening, accompanied by a brief wash of brighter light through the room. He can’t turn to see as Pepper comes in, but he tracks her progress through the room, her heels clacking against the tiled floor and mere seconds later, her slim, cool fingers wrap around his own and she’s pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. He can just make out a wetness to her eyes, behind her loose bangs, and he always hates when he makes her cry. No one should make her cry. She deserves so much better than being made to cry.

“Oh _Tony_ , what did they _do_ to you?” She whispers as fingers slide through his hair, familiar motion that even now helps to soothe him a little.

“Hey, Pep…”

Another wash of brighter light and Pepper straightens, looking over her shoulder. Even turned away he can see how anxious she is.

“Good evening Mister Stark, my name’s Doctor Palmer, Stephen called me in when he rescued you,” a thirty-something strawberry-blond woman comes into view, dressed in pale blue scrubs over a creamy white long-sleeve shirt, stethoscope hanging around her neck. There is a focussed expression on her face as she flips through what must be his chart before reaching over to his right to do… _something_ \- he has no idea _what_ , because _he can’t turn his head_.

She turns back to him with a smile and places his chart on what he is going to have to guess is the bedside table. “I need to check a few things, alright Mister Stark? You’ve had some trauma to the neck and we need to be sure that everything is still in working order.” He would nodd, but, as already noted, _he can’t._

The fact that he is clearly wearing a neck brace is beginning to make him hyperventilate again - but Pepper’s hand is grasping his, and he can feel it, and that is the only thing staving off another panic attack.

“I need you to close your eyes and tell me if what you feel is sharp or dull please.”

A sharp prick to his arm follows moments after he does so. “Ow,” he opens one eye to glare at her and she smiles, “Sharp or dull?”

“Sharp.”

She nods, “Good. Closed, please.”

She continues down his arm, to his fingers - alternating gentle pricks and soft brushes against his skin - where he admits he is feeling some tingling (a sensation that sets his heart racing, if he loses sensation in his _hands,_ he’s a _mechanic, he needs his hands!)_

“That isn’t altogether surprising, Mister Stark, considering the trauma you’ve gone through, but I don’t think we can make any dire prognosis just yet. Excuse me, Ms Potts.” Pepper’s hand withdraws and Doctor Palmer goes through the same routine on his left, with the same results. Pepper moves back to his side again, fingers grasping his own as Doctor Palmer moves to the end of the bed and flips the blankets up, exposing his legs. “Alright Mister Stark, I’m going to check your legs.”

She goes through the same routine, and this time the results are even better, no tingling and he twitches when she tests the soles of his feet and his toes. From what he can see of Doctor Palmer’s expression, and from Pepper’s obvious relief, he thinks he passed this test. Palmer picks his chart up again and makes a series of notes.

“Do you think you’re ready for a run down?” she asks, finally turning back to actually look at him after a protracted and busy silence.

Pepper squeezes his hand and he takes a deep breath - feels the way his chest and his ribs complain as he does - “Hit me.”

Doctor Palmer gives him a long look and then relaxes, “Alright, I’ll start with the worst of it. I’m sure you noticed you’re wearing a neck brace? And I know you understand the importance of the test we just ran through.” She pauses and again, he would nod, except...

“You have a minor odontoid fracture in the C1 and C2 vertebrae - luckily, it’s not a complete fracture and it appears that none of the soft tissue or the spinal cord was damaged, so you’ve avoided paralysis. I don’t know how you did it, because Stephen says it is clear you moved from the initial impact site, but you are _extremely_ lucky. It appears that the tingling in your hands is more to do with the whiplash than the fracture, but we’ll be able to tell for certain once you’ve been in for some scans.” She pauses again, her eyes raking over his expression, probably seeing far more of his reaction than he can acknowledge.

“You’re going to be wearing the brace for six to eight weeks while it heals, though, and… Mister Stark, you’re going to have to be mindful of this injury from now on. I know this is hard to hear, but with damage like this, and the work that you do, you may need to rethink the suit a little to better protect your neck and head. Or a well-placed impact could re-break it and… the next time around things could easily be far worse.”

Doctor Palmer pauses to give him a moment and his eyes close as he tries to breathe through the raw emotion vying to take over. His skin is clammy suddenly, breath too short, his fingers numb. He swallows against the almost strangling lump of unvoiced scream trapped low in his throat. This was… this was _close_ . It was _so close_ . Rhodey’s already suffering for this stupid _stupid_ defection, war, _team break up_ . They still don’t know if he’s going to walk again - and Tony knows, _he knows_ , he will do everything in his power to give him back his mobility in any way that he can - and if this… this break in his _fucking neck_ had been even a little off, if he hadn’t managed to keep his head still while struggling to get away from the blisteringly cold wind, trying to reach a means of communication… It could have been both of them paralysed.

Or he could be dead.

Pepper’s fingers grip his own even harder and he can hear her breath hitching as she tries not to cry any more than she already is. He squeezes his tingling fingers around hers, an attempt to reassure even as his own mind scrambles. He barely remembers crawling his way across the concrete, grabbing the helmet in the hopes he could get it to work. One false move in all that movement and he could…

The fight with Steve is a blur, but… he thinks he remembers the moment his neck must have cracked. The moment Steve threw him against the concrete pillar, the defined ninety-degree edge of it slamming right into the neck of the suit, the tiny section between helmet and collar. A truly unpredictable chance blow. He remembers the sharp pain, how it had grown worse as Steve beat at him and then ripped the helmet off him, wrenching his head to the side. He had ignored it at the time, terrified as he was that Steve was going to slam the edge of the shield into his throat.

He heaves a long shuddering sigh and opens his eyes again, forcing the memories away. His voice wavers a little as he says, “The rest..?”

Doctor Palmer purses her lips and nods, “One broken rib; it was pressing into your lung but didn’t pierce it. Three cracked ribs. There’s a crack in your sternum which - we will need to discuss options concerning your sternum, Mister Stark, once you’re faring better.” She pauses again, but only briefly. “When Stephen found you, you were suffering from Moderate Hypothermia, as well as a concussion. You have extensive bruising and a number of lacerations, the largest of which is the one across your chest.”

Pepper pats and strokes his arm, from the corner of his eye he can see her press a hand to her face briefly. “We had to manually release you from the suit, Tony. Parts of it had buckled in…”

He forces out a laugh that, even to his own ears, is devoid of mirth, “Super Soldiers pack a hell of a punch.”

There is another long and busy silence as Pepper and Doctor Palmer apparently absorb what he’s just said. If he could, he would turn away, avoid their eyes, but he can’t so he simply closes his own instead.

Footsteps head for the door, sensible shoes on tile. “I’ll be back to check on you soon Mister Stark.” The door closes softly and then he is left alone in the gloom with Pepper.

Her fingers tighten on his again.

“Tony. Talk to me… What happened? Was it Zemo? Was it HYDRA?”

He sighs, opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling.

“Zemo… Zemo was there. In Siberia. An old HYDRA base. He planned it all. I think it was just… lucky for him that I followed them, else he would have just… released the video worldwide. But… I was there so… he could see it real time.”

Pepper strokes his wrist and he avoids her eyes, “Video?” She prompts, quietly.

“....he made me watch the Winter Soldier kill Howard... My Mom.”

The little gasp is expected, “But…”

“Staged,” he whispers, “HYDRA wanted Howard dead… And…” he closes his eyes again, turns his hand over in hers and grips her fingers. “Steve _knew_.”

He laughs brokenly, “He _knew_ , Pep. He’s known since… since he took SHIELD down. He stood there as I watched my mother murdered and _pretended_ , he pretended he hadn’t known, lied to my fucking face…”

Pepper links their fingers together, her breath hitches wetly and he thinks he’s made her cry again. He’s always making her cry. “Tony… God, I am _so sorry…._ ”

“I hit him,” he forces out through clenched teeth. “I just - I couldn’t _stand_ it. I hit him.” He laughs again and lifts his free hand to his face, arm trembling, heavy, still in pain from the fight in Germany. “God… I _hated_ him in that moment,” he says through his fingers, “All that shit… that shit about not lying to your teammates. I couldn’t.. I couldn’t take it. He stood there and _said he didn’t know,_ Pep… right to my face…”

Pepper gently takes his hand and tugs it away from his face where he knows tears are tracking down his bruised skin, pooling at his temples in the brace, into his hair. He lets her do it, used to just letting her do things like this. They’re not even together any more, haven’t been for weeks, but she presses a kiss to his fingers, gently places his hand on his belly and then touches a tissue she’s magicked from somewhere to his cheeks.  “What happened? Tony..?”

He heaves a shaky breath, fingers clenching weakly in the thick heated blanket still keeping him warm. “I… we fought. I wanted to make Bucky _hurt_ . God, Pep, I know it wasn’t _him_ , not really, but… in that moment I just wanted to make him hurt. I.. I wanted to bring him in… Steve.. Steve protected him. We fought. He…” He lifts his hand and waves vaguely at himself, “They left. I.. I couldn’t get up.”

The only sound for a few minutes is his own laboured breathing as he tries to bring himself back under control, eyes squeezed shut as he fights back the tears and the scream still lodged in his throat. Swallowing against it hurts, makes him want to throw up, to open his mouth and just let it out. To let the pain out. Give it reality. But he grits his teeth and forces it back.

“No one knew where you were, Tony. No one,” Pepper says finally, quietly. “Steve… Steve did _this_ to you.. And then they left you there.” Her voice is calm, but he knows that tight, clipped pronunciation. Steel and fury and ice. “You were there for nearly six hours. Freezing. Injured. _You could have died._ ”

Tony closes his eyes and grips her hand, an anchor in the storm of his own inner turmoil.


	3. Chapter 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am REALLY enjoying writing Stephen, just so y'all know lol 
> 
> I also don't have a BETA-reader, so any mistakes etc are mine though I'm trying to iron them out.

**Chapter 02**

 

“God, Tones you should be sleeping, it’s three ay-em! What - what even are you doing over there?”

“No rest for the wicked, Platypus, and you know how very wicked I am.”

Rhodey frowns at him through the holo-screen and that is a _very knowing_ frown, that expression portends certain very uncomfortable conversations and Tony is very much not about _conversations_ right now, so he deflects. “I am a very busy man, Sugarplum, work work, always work. Can’t let a little thing like _bed rest_ knock me out of the game. Gotta stay ahead of the competition, got a whole new field of technology to give the Stark overhaul here.”

As he talks, his hands - fingers still tingling, arms and shoulders and neck still aching, but he ignores these signals as unnecessary noise to be filtered out, not even considered, if he can move he can work and he _needs_ to work - fly over a dozen different holographic screens floating around him. To his left and in front of him, in the holoscreen connecting him to room 512, Rhodey pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated, “It’s not _bed rest_ , Tones, your neck is broken! You need to sleep, you need to stop-” he pauses, mouth moving as he tries to find the right word, “Stop being so frenetic! You shouldn’t be moving so damn much-”

“I’m _fine_ , Rhodey,” he snaps, and then does actually pause, realising what he's done. He gives his best friend a slight apologetic smile, grateful when the man simply rolls his eyes at him and smirks.

“Really, Rhodey, I’m fine. I’m not even moving all that much. And you know me, I can’t just _sit here_ . I’m going out of my mind as it is, there’s just so much that needs doing…” Not that he's actually sitting, exactly, more… propped up on roughly a million pillows at some angle the various doctors and nurses he employs decided his _broken fucking neck_ could withstand. Shaking hands reach up to rub at tired eyes as he trails off. He needs to keep busy so he can stop fucking _thinking,_ christ.

“Tony.”

He drops his hands from his face and finds Rhodey watching him with undisguised concern.

“You know it’s not your fault, Tones? None of this is; not me, not the Accords and certainly not Rogers running off the way he did. It’s not on you. You _know_ that, right?”

Tony doesn’t answer immediately, simply sighs. Intellectually he guesses it’s not _all_ his fault, but when has intelligence ever mattered when it comes to feelings? Never, that’s when. Not that he has feelings. Nope.

“ _Maybe_ . And that’s a _big_ maybe, Platypus. But I’m the one who's been left behind to clear up the mess again either way.”

Rhodey’s frown deepens and he opens his mouth - but Tony has no idea what he’s going to say because someone knocks on the door to his room. Its three in the morning and who the hell visits Stark Medical at three in the morning? But whatever. Distraction, he'll take it.

“I’ll call you back later Rhodey, be good, go to sleep and don’t do anything I wouldn’t with the lovely nurses.” He flashes his friend’s scandalized expression a grin and flicks the screen closed, hanging up before Rhodey can reply.

“Come in,” he calls as he pulls up a couple new screens, intent on getting back to work now that his best friend-cum-Nanny is no longer keeping tabs on him.

“Ah, Doctor Stark, I apologise if I interrupted something, but I had a feeling you would still be awake.”

Tony blinks. He can’t actually turn to see who has come in, but he remembers the voice. He had been beginning to think he’d imagined it - _both_ times. He’s about to tell the guy to get over here where he can see him, but the door closes and his visitor strides into sight without needing to be told. Tony’s brows rise as he takes in the blue robes, the layers-upon-layers of belts, the weird way the sleeves are bound and wrapped at the wrists - and is that a goddamn _amulet_? He appears to be wearing something… Tibetan? Tibetan via Dungeons and Dragons, anyway.

“Wow. Very appropriative there, you been playing white savior in some LARP-er’s paradise?”

The man snorts, a smirk playing about his thin lips, “No. It _is_ good to know you’re feeling more yourself though. Even at this hour.”

Tony squints at him.  Squints _up_ at him, this guy is unfairly tall and… vaguely familiar. Not just because of the goatee, either.

“Oh-kay… who the hell are you and why do I recognise you.”

The man pulls up one of the guest chairs and sits, “I did explain the last time, but I guess you _were_ a tad indisposed. My name is Doctor Stephen Strange and I rescued you.”

“You’re a _doctor_ ? Dressed like _that_ ? Which flavour of pseudoscience do you peddle?” He wrinkles his nose and points at him, “Are you a Chiropractor? If you’re a Chiropractor you’re not coming anywhere _near_ my neck, you’ll not be subluxing any of _my_ vertebra today, thanks, my neck’s bad enough already. And if you’re anti-vaxx I’m banning you from the building, we don’t take any of _that_ shit in Stark Industries. This is a verified science only organisation.”

The man - Doctor Strange? - laughs and Tony blinks again, taken aback. And curious too. People don’t generally laugh in genuine amusement when he starts rambling at them. Well. Rhodey does, and Pepper rolls her eyes and smiles at him, but they’re, like, the exceptions that prove the rule. Alright, Clint did too, but _that_ way lies pain, so he stops thinking about it immediately.

Strange calms down, eventually, but he’s still smiling when he says, “Oh, don’t look so shocked, I can’t be the first person to find you amusing.” He does roll his eyes then, but pushes on, a smile still curving his lips just enough to be noticeable, “And no, none of the above, I’m a neurosurgeon, or I was. I _am_ still a Doctor, however. We met once, a few years ago, at a conference, before - before Iron Man, actually. But that’s neither here nor there, the _important_ thing is that I felt a disturbance and followed it - to _you_ . I’m still not sure _why_ you caused such a disturbance, though.” He spreads his arms a little, hands open, “Hence my visit. I am intrigued.”

Tony stares at him in silence for a moment. “A disturbance? Like, what, like ‘ _in the Force_ ’ disturbance? Wait - you _rescued_ me… How?” He lifts one shaky hand to rub at his temple, eyes falling closed as he does, “I remember… I remember your voice, and a .. an orange light? That doesn’t make sense.” Dropping his hand he glares at Strange, “I was in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, Siberia, how the hell did you just happen to find me, _and_ rescue me?”

Strange smiles properly, his weird eyes bright with - Christ, is that _mischief_? “Ah yes, and so we get to the explanation portion of the conversation. I’m afraid you’re not going to like it much, Mister ‘verified science only’.”

“Whatever the hell _that_ means.”

“I am a sorcerer. In fact I am the Sorcerer Supreme; it is my duty, and my privilege, to protect this world, this realm, from sorcerers with ill intent, dark magics and beings from the darker dimensions. I work to maintain balance and order on the metaphysical level and it was _on_ the metaphysical level that I felt a disturbance - _you_ were at the center of it.”

There is a very, _very_ long silence.

“Bullshit.”

Strange laughs again, his weird pale eyes dancing. He is still grinning when he says, “This must be how the Ancient One felt when _I_ first approached _her_. I’ll have to apologise to Wong later.” He pauses, “I can't prove it to you the way she did to me, I'd rather not aggravate your cervical injury… hmm.”

“...Ancient One?” Tony has encountered magic, sort of, in Wanda - though he is sure her abilities are entirely artificial and dependant on HYDRA stone based genetic manipulation - and something he is willing to call magic but thinks of as inexplicably advanced tech, in Loki. But this guy, Strange, is altogether human and appears to be talking about, well, Harry Potter shit. _Maybe_ Star Wars shit. Either way he's not about to believe it without evidence.

“Alright, let's try this.”

Tony watches in consternation as Strange sits up straighter, smirks and then starts… moving his hands around in weird shapes, fingers locking and folding and tapping in a series of movements that mean absolutely nothing to him except that from the _first movement_ a glowing orange-gold circle blossoms into life hanging in the air before Strange’s chest. Every single movement adds an element - runes and sigils that make no sense to Tony beyond ‘vaguely alchemical maybe’ - until a complex, glowing web of light comes to life between them. A mandala looking thing that absolutely should not be possible.

“FRIDAY,” he mutters, staring as Strange adds more sigils, “You better be recording this.”

“Yeah, Boss, absolutely.” Her voice sounds almost as incredulous as he feels and he is so proud of his babygirl in that moment, even if he is distracted.

Strange grins at him, “Pay attention now, Doctor Stark.”

The doctor's gloved hands slam suddenly forward into the center of the design; there is a flash, Tony blinks, and then the glowing Mandela _spreads_ . He flinches as the thing moves _through_ him, and it is at that moment that he begins to think maybe it’s not just a fancy hologram, because he _felt that_ , a tingling buzzing sensation of something with substance-but-not-really passing _through his body._

“...And _now._ ” Strange’s deep voice intones.

The ceiling and walls fold back, block by block, clacking and clicking and rolling backwards and away until they’re completely, impossibly _gone_ . Tony struggles to sit up a little straighter, turning his entire torso in order to look around. The ugly bespoke print is still hanging on thin air exactly where the wall should be. The _window frame,_ curtains and sil and all, hangs exactly where it should, even the _door_ is still in place and he can see the dimmed night time light of the hall. But the walls are gone, the ceiling is gone, _the floor is gone._ The bed, the bedside table, the IV stand, even the chair Stephen is sitting in all sit on an invisible floor.

And they are hanging in the emergent layer of a _rainforest_ . A breeze crosses them, stirring Strange’s hair and bringing with it the damp, green, _living_ scent of a tropical forest. The sun beats down on his exposed arms and face, moisture in the air collects on the cool metal of the bed frame and IV stand. Sweat rises on his body; apparently it’s cooler in a hospital room than a _fucking rainforest_.

He looks at Strange, and finds the man grinning at him, sitting entirely unaffected and nonchalant in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, left foot firmly planted on _thin air_.

A flurry of flapping startles him and a - _the largest goddamn bird he has ever seen up close_ lands on the foot rail and clacks it’s beak at him. He blinks at it. Black and white feathers. Enormous yellow-orange beak. “Is that… is that…”

“Rhinoceros Hornbill, I believe. Impressive.”

“ _Is that real?”_

Strange laughs again, and this time it is a deeply amused belly laugh, “It _is_ , yes.”

The bird screeches, leaping back into the air and Tony jerks back into his pillows, wincing against the reminder that his neck is br- _cracked_.

“Be careful there, Doctor Stark, please, the point of introducing it to you this way is to _not_ further damage your neck. Just, sit back and enjoy it, if you would.”

Tony gives him an incredulous look, but is greeted by both Strange rolling his eyes and smirking, and the rainforest shifting sideways with a blur, like a B-Movie special effect, until suddenly they are set right in the middle of the open paved space of Trafalgar Square in the early morning light of London. The air is still damp, but this time it’s chill and the moisture settling on everything is a relief after the muggy heat of the rainforest. People in business suits, people in hoodies or jackets or sweaters and jeans, people in uniforms, all criss-cross the space, each of them hurrying in their own little worlds and not a single one of them steps through the ‘room’. They skirt it as if it is a solid obstacle, but without any hint that they even see it and Tony watches, brain ticking over what he’s seeing.

Strange watches him in turn, a smile on his lips and gaze calculating as he steeples his gloved fingers, tips tapping his chin.

A light rain sweeps slowly across the square, one of those rare moments when you get to witness the progress of the clouds by the wall of falling water. Tony watches as it comes their way, as the people around them throw up umbrellas or turn up hoods or collars. The rain sweeps into the space of the room and he hadn't known whether to expect the rain to skirt the room in the same way the early morning commuters did or not, but it doesn't.

He's lying in a hospital bed in Stark Tower, New York, but he's _also_ being lightly rained on in Trafalgar Square, London. He lifts his hands, and runs them through his rain-damp hair and laughs.

The world blurs again into… A grey dusty desert. No breeze. No rain. The endless sky above and around them pure black nothingness pin pricked with a trillion stars. A beautiful blue-green-white pearl hangs silently above them, turning almost imperceptibly slowly.

Tony pushes back into the pillows and tries not to panic, his previous elation gone as visions of vast floating armies and desolate landscapes dotted with dead comrades fills his mind. “Where the fuck are we?” His voice shakes and he hadn't wanted it to do that, that's too much information for anyone, let alone this Strange guy. “Where are we!”

“Surely you… We're on the moon, Tony.”

A shifting of fabric, soft footfalls in layers of space dust and Strange comes into view, amusement gone, now his eyes hold nothing but concern.

“Take us back,” Tony grits out through clenched teeth, eyes wide despite wanting to close them against the view, refusing to show _that_ particular weakness to a relative stranger. “Take me _back_.”

Strange nods and Tony watches as he lifts his hands; orange mandalas and strings of runes and sigils blossom into life wrapped loosely, spinning slowly, around his forearms. He touches his fingers to apparently random sections, forms a series of intricate shapes with his hands and gestures suddenly, hands slung outward.

A clacking, clicking, shifting sound rings in the silence of the moonscape and he watches as the walls and ceiling fold back together, the room reforming brick by brick around them, like an impossible game of 3D Tetris. Every block locking into place makes it easier to breathe until they are back in New York and Tony heaves a breath, shaking hands sliding over his face, through his - _his hair is still wet._

He looks up and Strange shrugs, “Yes it was real. No it was not illusion, nor was it holographic,” he taps one of the screens, sending it floating slowly away from himself. The mandalas have vanished from his arms. “We - this room and it's contents - occupied both the space and time of Stark Tower, _and_ Borneo, _and_ London, _and_ the moon. It is quite a complex spell, not used often, but I thought it would prove the veracity of my claims to you in a way you would… enjoy.” He pauses and Tony swallows against the now-familiar blockage in his throat.

“I apologise if I misstepped. It was not my intention to scare you. But it was real, _is_ real.” Strange leans over slightly, reaching for the foot of the bed, lifts something that Tony had been only vaguely aware of resting on his feet. When Strange straightens he lifts a long feather into view and smiles, “More proof, perhaps.”

“How…”

Strange hands him the feather and Tony's fingers have stopped trembling at least, so he doesn't drop it, holds it up so he can actually examine it. He runs his fingers over the edge of the vane, watches the way it comes apart and then reforms when he gently presses and slides the vane between finger and thumb, the barbs connecting to hold the shape once more.

“The spell? It… folds space somewhat. Allows two points to exist simultaneously; for a given understanding of simultaneous… and a given understanding of space. And only for a short period. It is not a spell one is given to use for any great length of time, it can be quite draining.”

Tony gives him a sharp look, “Did you… does that spell create a _goddamn wormhole_?”

Strange quirks a brow at him, and the smile on his lips now is slightly lopsided, “Right. You added Cosmological Physics to your collection of PhDs didn’t you?” He shakes his head, “No. This is not physics I am using, it is magic. Folding space is simply… a way to explain it that you will understand.”

Tony arches his own brows at _that._ “How very condescending of you.” Now that he’s calmed back down again, for the most part, he’s finding the entire situation fascinating though. Not genetic manipulation using the energy of the stones, not alien tech that _looks_ like magic, but actual, physics defying (for now, he's _sure_ he'll figure it out, he always does), _magic_.

“Alright, Strange, say I believe you. What next? Why are you actually here? And at three ish in the morning no less.”

Strange takes his seat again and appears to relax, “As I said. Something about what happened to you in Siberia caused a... _disturbance_ on the metaphysical level, like…. Ripples on the surface of a pond. I followed them back to the center, intending to find the source of the disturbance - and there _you_ were. Beaten, frozen, almost dead.” He shrugs, the smile he had been wearing now a slight grimace. “Also, I live part-time n Kathmandu and the jetlag's a bitch.”

Tony mulls for a long moment, fingers toying absently with the feather. “Thank you. I don't think I said that yet? Not… not for me. I don’t think I care about _me_ in.. in this whole scenario. For Pepper and Rhodey. I.. don't think they would have reacted well to... Well. Anyway.” He takes a deep breath, twirling the stem of the feather between his fingers, “This all sounds very sci-fantasy and I'm definitely sure I don't approve.”

Strange gives him a very long, very knowing look, a look Tony tries to hide from, before saying with a levity he hadn’t been expecting, “Be that as it may, I believe I will be hanging around for at least a little time, in order to figure out your place in this… metaphysical disturbance. Clearly you are important for _something_.”

Tony snorts, and then regrets it as his neck twinges.


	4. Chapter 03

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, my name's Hannah and I don't have a BETA reader. Anyone want the job? Find me at @HannahBag on twitter or amaluelmwood on tumblr or even AmaLu #3319 on discord. Also I'm a master's degree research jockey at the moment, which is why this is a day later than intended lol

Chapter 03 

 

“Fuck!”

Tony starts awake on a gasped curse, hands immediately coming up to check his neck, his chest. Trembling fingers bang against the plastic, canvas and padding of the collar and slide down the curve of it to the layers of bandages over his chest and around his ribs. He chokes on the swallowed scream again as he reminds himself that the shield went into his _chest_ not his _throat,_ that he’s alive and in New York, in his own tower, his friends nearby, that he’s not slowly freezing to death alone in a Siberian bunker.

His clammy hands come to rest against his cracked and weakened sternum, the light pressure of them there sending languid waves of an aching pain through him at the beat of his pulse. The realisation that having his chest broken wasn’t actually much better has him laughing, brokenly, into the darkness of the room - he refuses to acknowledge that the laugh actually sounds like a sob - but at least he’s not panicking quite as much anymore.

“FRIDAY, breathing, please…”

“Okay, Boss…”

FRIDAY quietly talks him through some of his breathing exercises, getting him somewhere close to comfortable again, his heart rate lowering, until he can feel himself relaxing again. _God_. Before all this shit with the Accords went down he had been beginning to get himself back together, he had started sorting his head out.

He’s back at square-fucking-one. He feels like _crying_. But he swallows against that urge too and wipes his hands over his face as he releases a shaky sigh. It’s getting a little tiring to keep up the cheery confident facade again. He’s been here before, he thought he was past it, that he had moved on, could start building his life back up again. But no. One little betrayal and he’s -

The door rattles a little as it opens suddenly, a block of light washing into the room and he startles again, a gasp punched out of him.

“Oh, Mr Stark, you’re awake.” Doctor Palmer steps into the room, gently closing the door behind her as she gives him a tired smile.

It takes him a moment to recapture his composure and by the time he is once again controlling his breathing, the doctor has picked up his chart and is flipping through it, “Just a check up to make sure everything is going fine, Mr Stark,” she says with another tired, if pleasant smile.

He squints at her as she then replaces the chart and moves to check each of the machines he’s plugged into. When she reaches for his wrist he pulls it smoothly away and she frowns at him, “Mr Stark this really is something that I need to do, your system has gone through quite some shocks and we need to be certain that everything is still ticking along as it should be.”

“Yes, well, read it from the monitor.”

“Mr Stark…”

“No. Nope. Consent. You don’t have it right now.” He is absolutely _not_ in the mood for any of this, at all, absolutely none of it. His skin is already crawling with phantom touches and checking his pulse at his wrist will just exacerbate his problems.

Doctor Palmer takes the hint, however, and backs off. She picks the chart back up again and makes some notes that he is very certain he will not approve of, that Pepper will probably look sad over, that Happy with cluck over…

“I'm sorry, do I employ you?” He says tightly, trying to distract himself, “Are you one of mine? I don't remember you in my records, why are you here clucking at me like a mother hen? I already have _three_ of those, stop it.”

Doctor Palmer simply rolls her eyes at him, “Stephen called me in when he found you, he didn't trust anyone else to know what they were doing.” She places one hand on her hip, the other clutching his chart, “He dragged me in on my day off, right into Siberia where it was cold and unnerving, so you owe me.”

He squints at her, “Nope. Try again.” Even as late as it is, as little, and disturbed, sleep as he has gotten, he can tell there’s more to it.

This time she purses her lips, then her shoulders drop a little, “Alright fine. Stephen’s a good friend; he doesn't ask for help as often as he should, so when he called - or when he… stepped through a portal - I answered. _He's_ invested, so _I'm_ invested. And I guess it helps that Ms Potts offered to pay me for my time whenever I'm here.”

He waves his hand at her, gesturing for her to keep going.

“....So she's paying me my usual salary and matching it in donations to charities I selected.”

“Ah. That does sound like Ms Potts. So, you’re a friend of the wizard?”

“Sorcerer,” she corrects absently and then smiles at his raised eyebrow, “And yes. We’ve worked together for… a long time. Well before he decided to meddle in magic.”

“So he really was a neurosurgeon?”

She moves up closer to his head and motions to his pillows; he shifts himself a little so she can actually resettle them for him.

“Yes. I’m surprised you haven’t looked him up yet, actually.” And she gives him a knowing look as she shuffles the pillows. It is far too early in the morning and he has had far too little sleep for anyone, let alone an actual doctor, to be giving him knowing looks.

Tony pouts a little as she helps him settle back into the pillows again. “So you caught me, _yes_ , I’ve looked him up, I’m just… lost on the whole ‘ultimate cosmic power’ thing he’s got going on now. Also, you’re a doctor, not a nurse - what gives.”

Doctor Palmer folds her arms and gives him a long look, under which he tries not to fidget.

“You’ll have to ask Stephen about it, it’s not my story to tell. And like I said, it’s a favor for him - and I honestly think your family are happier with me doing the job and hanging around than anyone else doing it. Even over the people your company actually employs.”

Which. Alright. A little disconcerting, he admits, thinking about his life being in the hands of anyone other than Palmer and Strange now that he’s contemplating it - though he vaguely remembers other medics being involved somewhere along the lines. He’ll have to ask about it later. “Fine.”

Doctor Palmer nods, “Ok, well, you’re actually doing fine, so I’ll leave you to get some more sleep and see you again later, Mr Stark.”

“Tony. Please,” he says almost absently. She pauses on her way to the door, before nodding once and leaving, plunging the room back into darkness again.

Wait. What? Family? He lays there and stares at the ceiling for a long time before sleep finally catches up to him.

\---

“They’re not happy. At all, Tony. And three more countries have signed up… That brings the Accords up to 120 countries since Germany. The press is all over it and I think we need to make a statement, they’re frothing at the bit already.”

Pepper shifts some paper about and Tony only half watches as he pulls up the list on one of the floating screens, checking which countries are actually signed up now. As well as the three new sign ups, looks like another five are preparing to do it. The Avengers ‘Civil War’ - the press must be having a field day with that one - has had a far larger impact on things than anyone could have believed.

“We can do it later, tomorrow maybe, get our best PR on the job - which knowing you, they already are.” He stares at a few headlines that pop up in his browsing, “They do know I’m alive, right?”

Pepper rolls her eyes, “Yes, Tony, they know you’re alive. I would be remiss in my duties if they didn’t at this point. I’ve had to pull a lot of strings to make sure exactly the information we wanted leaked was leaked, and to the right people, to make sure that the world does, in fact, know that you are alive.”

That’s his Pep, owning the world and running it without breaking a sweat. “You _know_ that you are a terrifying woman, Pepper, yes?”

She smirks at him, “Yes, yes I do. Now, I think it may behoove us to leak a photograph or two of your injuries. I know you want to keep this as private as you can, and I understand why, but with the way things are going in the political realm, we need as many people on our side as possible, and I think one or two leaked photo’s showing the extent of the damage the super soldiers did to you will go a long way to garnering exactly the sort of support we need.”

Tony does his best to hide his reaction to the suggestion, and the allusion to Steve, however oblique. But Pepper knows him too well. “I’m sorry, Tony. I really am, but you know it’s something we need to do - and if we can do it right, we can control it. Only the images we select, only the information we deem appropriate. There’s no stopping the press from speculating, but if we give them a little to satisfy them they can at least speculate in a direction we can control.”

He sighs, “What pictures do you have?”

Pepper straightens, “FRIDAY, pull up the file? June 25th through July 4th.”

“Right you are, Ms Potts.”

A folder pops into existence and when he lifts one hand to touch the icon, a series of photographs spread out, slightly overlapped. There must be at least fifty of them. A cursory glance tells him it’s a full visual record of his injuries, ranging from a handful of full-body shots at various angles, to close ups at different angles of every single injury with rulers arranged close by for sizing. Some appear to be time lapse, recording the progression of his bruising, some of them were clearly taken before he had regained consciousness. The bruise records he at least knew about, he’s had to sit through them, but the rest of it...

“God… this is…” He hadn’t _actually_ known the extent of it all, unable to see it as he is.

Pepper purses her lips, “Yes. You’re baseline human, however well protected you are in the suit, however intelligent you are. Baseline human. No healing abilities, no heightened strength or agility or… anything. Just human. Just you. What they did was beyond the pale, and you know it Tony.”

He does. He _does_ know it. He keeps fucking dreaming about it. He catches himself rubbing at his chest, right where the ARC reactor used to be housed, where the cracked sternum now sits, under it’s wads of padding and bandages. It aches, even now.

A glance at Pepper tells him she noticed as well, as she gives him a sad smile. “We have to go public over what exactly happened, Tony. And why. It’s dangerous to keep it all to ourselves, the world has a right to know what they did.”

Tony rubs his face and sighs. Pepper’s right, she’s speaking a whole hell of a lot of sense, but he really _really_ doesn't want to think about any of it. Not yet. Not ever, if he can help it.

“And…”

He glances up at her, “And?”

Pepper purses her lips again. “And… We were informed this morning that someone broke them out. Of the Raft. They’re gone, Tony, and we don’t know where they went.”

Which means the soldiers broke out their team and now they’re _all_ on the damn run, traitors to America. This is a goddamn _mess._ If they had stayed put, he could have worked on getting them out of there legally. But no, the soldiers have ruined all their chances at doing anything in a legal manner and-

“Well. Except Lang, apparently.”

He blinks, derailed. “Who?”

“Scott Lang.” She pulls one of the folders out from under the paperwork spread out over the wheeled hospital-desk she’s been using, flips it open. “Alias… Ant Man. And also Giant Man, oddly. He’s well educated, has a good employment history, a masters in Electrical Engineering, and spent some time in prison for… huh.”

She glances up at him and he can see she’s interested, before she looks back down at the file again. “Well, it looks like he tried to pull a Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give back to the poor they’d been stealing from in the first place.” She pauses briefly, eyes still moving over the text, “He.. seems like a nice guy, really. I’m not sure I understand how he got caught up in things.”

Tony doesn’t either. He’s pulled up the files FRIDAY can find on the man, skimming over them with interest. He does recognise the face in the mug shots, but only from the brief meeting on the Raft, when Lang had insulted him and he’d had no earthly idea who he was. His brows raise when he discovers Lang actually works with Pym, has done for a little while now, which explains the second-hand hatred, as well as the suit. So… another baseline human in a high tech power suit. With a family, even. A young daughter. How the _hell_ did he get caught in this mess?

Pepper makes a small noise and Tony looks at her. She blinks and taps a delicate finger on the page she’s been reading, “He’s asked that he be tried on American soil, and if sent back to prison, that it be close to his daughter. That’s it, he’s not asking for anything else and he’s not fighting whatever decisions may be made about him.”

“Get him here, Pepper. Get him off that Raft and back in the country. If it please the Council, have him sent directly here where we can keep an eye on him, but I want him here so we can - I don’t know - make this _right_ . I don’t know what pretences he was pulled into the mess under by Steve and the rest, but it wasn’t his fight and he - we need to at least _try_ to make this right.”

Pepper nods, “Done. Though I’m sure Hank will want the suit back, and…he never signed the Accords in the first place - I have a feeling he never even read them - so the fact that he declined to ‘escape’ with the others may work in his favor.”

Tony shuts down the files and goes back to flipping through the photographs, feeling a little detached from them this time, looking for a couple he’s comfortable having go public, “With a degree like that, we can probably put him to work to pay his board,” he says absently. “And... these two will do. They show enough and they’re not too invasive.”

He closes the rest of the photos and rubs his face again as Pepper reviews them and then adds them to the PR file. He knows this is something they have to do, but he really, _really_ does not want to. “This is just going to get worse, isn’t it?”

Pepper sighs, “Before it gets better, yes. But it will get better, Tony, I promise.”

The photos are ‘leaked’ overnight and Stark Industries releases a statement later that afternoon. And things do, in fact, get worse.


	5. Chapter 04

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: check end notes for spoilery warnings
> 
> Also, hello, I return! I had to put everything aside because I was writing my Masters dissertation. 20k words on autistic adults, textual analysis and graphs aplenty. Loadsa work, but I did it! And just this week I found out I achieved my Masters with a Merit :3 
> 
> So, finally able to relax, I got back to writing and here is the result. I hope you enjoy! More soon :3
> 
> Also, I don't have a BETA reader, so apologies if there are mistakes.

Chapter 04

 

“Huh…” Tony stretches his left arm out and clenches, unclenches his fingers over and over for a moment as he contemplates the oddly familiar feeling running down his arm. Can’t quite place it though. With a shake of his head he dismisses it and returns to the hologram hanging before him. 

As predicted, three days later, and the media has indeed been having a field day with the leaked photos. In one of them it is very clear that he is in a neck brace - and when accompanied by comments in the statement Pepper released, it is clear, too, that he isn’t wearing it as a fashion statement, nor even as a precaution - and to say that public support for what has quickly become dubbed ‘#TeamCap’ is at an all time low is to completely underestimate the impact. 

He wonders, briefly, how his former teammates are reacting to it. Whether they’re even paying any attention to the news at this moment, or if they’re still on the run and unable to do so. Whether, in fact, they’re deliberately ignoring anything that mentions him. Considering Barton’s and Wilson’s very cold receptions in the Raft, Maximof’s clear disdain for him, the way the soldier’s had made their opinion clear when they left him to die… Maybe none of them care. 

There are dozens upon dozens of think pieces now, opinions and editorials, essays and open letters, every major newspaper, every major magazine in the right genre, all the tabloids, most of the smaller, lesser known papers and rags - everyone seems to have an opinion, and very few of them favourable towards #TeamCap. Some are still just as unfavourable towards himself, which is hardly surprising, he’s always been a contentious figure, so there’s no surprise there. But what has surprised him has been the huge outpouring of support for himself and his own ‘#TeamIronMan’. It seems the fact that not only did he come out of this whole situation in a hospital bed, but so did Rhodey, and that the Compound was close to destroyed, that his ex-teammates have gone on the run rather than face consequences for their actions… 

All together, it seems that the public, and dozens of influential figures, several government representatives - and several  _ governments  _ \- are standing behind him and his decisions. 

It’s… a little overwhelming. 

Which he is putting down to the concussion. Because he is absolutely not willing to deal with feelings right now. Is  _ never _ willing to deal with feelings if he’s honest. Hasn’t been for a long time. 

There is also some speculation that he’s dead.

He has to admit, the ‘leaked’ photo’s look pretty damning on that front. They’d both been taken before he woke up, so his bruised and lacerated features are lax, his hair a greasy mess, skin sallow - almost grey - and every single bandage and taped-up dressing is clear and bright, some of them stained a little with old, brown blood. 

He can understand the speculation, can even understand the influx of information demands from various media outlets. The only people who have gotten any real updates on him have been the board members of Stark Industries, however. And, well, and Harley and Peter, of course. Both of whom have declared every intention of visiting as soon as they can - Peter due to time constraints, Harley due to monetary issues (which he has instructed Pepper to help with) - and he looks forward to their visits, wants to look, to  _ be _ , as well as he can for them when they get here. They’ve both got more than enough of their own issues to deal with, without having his health to worry about. In Peter’s case, issues he’s contributed to. 

And doesn’t  _ that  _ thought just make him squirm, fear and shame and bile rising, before he shoves it all roughly aside to focus on the holo-screens of articles and opinion pieces and twitter threads and blogs floating around him.

He should probably get another image leaked as soon as possible, one of him up and about, just to belay the speculation. He sighs at the thought, clenching and unclenching his left hand again. Pepper has been the public face of the company through this whole mess, bless her and her iron control, but he needs to stop the insinuations and the rumours before they mutate and take on a life of their own. He needs to be up. He needs to get himself back out there; He has work to do, damage control, apologies, the Accords, what to do about #TeamCap. He needs to make amends with May Parker - and convince Peter to tell her the truth, if there’s  _ anything  _ he knows, it’s how badly even a well-intentioned lie can damage relationships - he needs to figure out what to do now that the Avengers are officially over. He needs to get Rhodey back up and walking. He needs to find Bruce.

There is far too much work to be done to stay in bed, secluded away from the public, from the Council, any longer. 

“FRIDAY, compile all the information you have on our possibles. I think we’re going to need to talk to them sooner than planned.” He closes each of the screens one by one, plans already formulating, as FRIDAY chirps an affirmative. 

 

\---

 

They’ve been making him go through the rounds of physiotherapy pretty much since day one, small movements mostly, enough to keep him from locking up, from his back and neck causing him any more pain than they already do - as much as he’s been ordered into bed rest, staying sitting, or lying own, for too long, especially in one position, is decidedly  _ not good _ for him and leads to a world of pain - and with his history of addiction, the doctors are not the only ones worried about how much pain relief he should be taking. 

He’s got as long as 8 weeks to suffer through the brace - 8 long weeks of not being able to see his feet, of sitting in upright chairs and consciously not slouching, of rolling to his feet in order to get out of bed - a solid two months, or more if anything goes wrong, and things do have a habit of going wrong. So he’s agreed to keep his painkillers to a minimum, agreed to keep up the recommended exercises, agreed to every little stipulation in order to be as healthy as possible as soon as possible.    
  
Unlike his first non-consensual surgery, he can’t McGuyver himself out of this. Can’t simply build a new suit and start over. Phoenix from the ashes. It’s been too long since then, too many injuries, too much pain, too many near misses. He has to be careful, has to follow doctors orders - chafe as he may to do so -  _ has to survive _ . He’s doing his best. He has too much to do. Too much to lose. 

He made short work, a couple days ago, of talking the good Doctor out of the … specific catheter that he did  _ not _ want to keep, so now he’s making his slow way to the private bathroom, trailing various monitoring lines, grip mostly steady on the shaft of the IV stand. Peter sits in the visitor’s chair, study texts and note paper strewn all over his lap and the table, and he just  _ knows _ the kid wants to get up and help, can see him veritably vibrating with the urge as he passes him, but he waves him off, “I’ll be  _ fine _ , kid. This is  _ way _ outside your paygrade, sit, stay, I’ll be back - keep talking though.” 

“Right - uh - well, Ned and I finally decided, right? And this time we got the Millennium Falcon set! It’s got seven thousand five hundred and forty one pieces! The  _ Death Star _ only has four thousand and sixteen! And I know the Falcon is, like,  _ the _ most expensive set, but we just couldn’t not, you know?” There’s a pause in the barrage of words - and as much pain as Tony is in, as much as his breathing is a little laboured from the walk, he can’t help but smile at the kid’s enthusiasm - and then, “You ok in there Mister Stark?” 

He rolls his eyes, though he’s still smiling, “I’m fine. FRIDAY’s keeping an eye on me, right Fri?”

“That I am, Sir!”

Tony smiles again, “Keep going, kid.” 

“Ok! I mean, this is gonna take  _ weeks  _ to build. It took us ages to build the Cloud City set-”   
  
“Shouldn’t you boys be able to build those things in a day or two?” He avoids his own gaze in the mirror as he washes his hands - carefully, slowly, and trying to avoid the tape and IV connections - he’s never been much of a fan of what he sees in mirrors, but right now he likes it even less. At the moment, the thought of it makes him queezy, a light sheen of sweat prickling up across his body.

“Yeah, but we don’t really have much time right now, y’know? School and after-school projects, and the whole, well, Spiderman thing. And thanks, by the way, Mister Stark.”

He finally opens the door, gives the kid an amused look through the weird bubbling pain in his belly, “What for?” 

Peter grins at him, “For getting it for us! I know it was you, and Ned loves it, and it gives us something even more awesome than usual to - Mister Stark!” 

“Boss!”

Tony blinks, the world is - fuzzy, shifting - his left arm shoots through with that odd feeling again as pain bursts in his chest and up his neck.  _ He can’t breathe _ . His vision tunnels, and for a brief moment he’s back in the wormhole, stars, pinpricks of light, endless space and space and space and 

“ _ You did not tell us that the target you paid us to kill was the great Tony Stark. _ ”

Screaming - chest ripped open - he feels  _ everything  _ \- harsh hands hold him down, stop him struggling

“ _ The price to kill Tony Stark has just gone up. _ ”

Water in his mouth - in his eyes - in his lungs - screaming - screaming - car battery clutched tightly - electricity and water is  _ such  _ a bad mix 

“... _ your deception and lies will cost you dearly... _ ”

“He’s my friend.” 

“So was I.” 

 

\---

 

The first time he wakes up his first thought is ‘Oh fuck, this routine again’, and he can see the light even through his eyelids. So he doesn’t bother opening his eyes at all, just stays still. Stays still long enough that he passes back out again. 

The second time, he opens his eyes and immediately wishes he hadn’t. The moan at the sharp pain that shoots through his head is muffled by yet another tube in his throat, and he squeezes them closed again. He’s still unable to move his head, so either it’s not been that long, or he did more damage doing… whatever the hell it was he did. Oddly, he’s certain someone had been speaking Urdu...

The third time he wakes up, the light is lower, easier to handle, and when his vision comes into focus, Doctor Palmer is looking down at him. Concern is etched into her every feature and he blinks. He  _ hurts _ . He’d just been getting to almost ‘I can deal with this’ levels of pain, but now it’s all back again and then some. His chest… His chest feels  _ wrong _ . The same sort of  _ wrong _ it had felt back in Afghanistan. 

Doctor Palmer appears to be speaking, but his head is fuzzy, filled with white noise and sense-memory and pain. Something freezing cold and wet touches his lips and suddenly he’s both aware of his thirst and aware that the tube is gone. Cold liquid slides into his mouth and he swallows reflexively, tracks the feel of it all the way down. Doctor Palmer smiles at him. 

"...Wh't … whu h'p'en..?" 

The doctor replies, but he still - he doesn't understand. He blinks up at her and feels the world shift and fade away again. 

The fourth time he wakes he's sure that this time,  _ this time _ , he's waking up for real. 

Tony blinks up at the ceiling. The light is dim enough to suggest night time, and doesn’t hurt his eyes. His throat is sore, his chest aches…  _ everything _ aches, but it is dull, hidden under layers of cotton wool, a distant thing that he can acknowledge, examine, and put aside. They must have relented and let him have the good stuff just this once. 

It takes him a long while to realise he’s not alone. 

Pepper is somewhere in the room, talking quietly with FRIDAY. They’re probably plotting how to run the world. The idea doesn’t bother him, in fact, it makes him feel safe. Safe and loved. If he could, he’d give Pepper everything, she’d know what to do, how to make everything right. He trusts her with everything. There’s a reason he made her CEO when he was dying. 

The weight on his legs, his knees mostly, confuses him. Until the weight shifts and there is a short gust of air, a sigh. FRIDAY must recognise his questioning expression - so many reasons to be proud of his girl - because a holo screen pops into existence, a livestream near-birdseye view of the room, and it’s Peter. Peter has fallen asleep, half on the bed, upper torso and arms over Tony’s legs, arms cradling his head. 

Christ. 

That. That right there. That sixteen year old superhero with a heart too big, overdeveloped sense of responsibility, curiosity and ingenuity to rival his own at the same age… This kid who has already lost too much. Who still finds the energy and strength to keep going… 

A reason to keep going. 

Harley too. 

Kids who have lost too much and yet… keep going. They look up to him, for some goddamn reason he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t… he doesn’t want to disappoint them. Doesn’t want to hurt them. All his long-thought atrophied paternal instincts have been kicking in, and now...

It takes all his effort, all his strength, but he manages to lift his hand and gently, carefully, brush his fingers into Peter’s hair. Then his strength is gone and he lets it falls softly against Peter’s shoulder. 

“Snfl-wha-?” 

Peter jerks upright, just short of jostling the bed, and now he’s at the right angle Tony can see him grinning down at him, eyes wide. Grin wider. “Mister Stark!” 

Tony gives him a small, tired, genuine smile in return, “Hey, Pete.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony has a heart attack and hallucinates as he passes out, mixed memories of the wormhole, Afghanistan torture and the Siberian bunker. The heart attack is shown from his point of view, so it may be a little graphic?


End file.
